


eggs

by minnominate



Series: better [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Find Bucky, M/M, Recovery, Scrambled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnominate/pseuds/minnominate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't make plans. It's not a big thing but you don't do it no more. You can't put yourself into the future like that. You got today to get through and that's enough. That's plenty. You feel pretty good about today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eggs

You don't make plans. It's not a big thing but you don't do it no more. You can't put yourself into the future like that. You got today to get through and that's enough. That's plenty. You feel pretty good about today.

You get up early, pretty much as soon as the sun comes up, which in this city right now is coming up on five thirty am. In other places it's later, earlier, you have a body memory of sunrise swinging late into the day, reaching back into the night, but in this place it's always really morning: five thirty, seven thirty. You don't go out for long, just take about a ten-k loop and then shower off the dirt under this crazy jet shower the bathroom has; that shit is _lulu_. You can't get over the shower. It's like being reborn every goddamned day. 

Your feet are still getting cut up. You should probably get some running shoes but you have this thing for the feeling the street under you. It's got - this city has something about it. You feel like you want it to touch you. You drag your fingers along the concrete cladding of your building every time you run home carrying your carton of eggs. You got this thing about eggs right now. You mix them up with butter in a pan and pile them on slices of toast and stuff your face, sitting at the countertop on this high stool that turns around on a cheap chrome pole and tapping your fingers on the eggs still left in the carton.

You hold one, top and bottom, in the finger and thumb of your hand, and look at it for too long, like, you think you should get bored it's so long but you can't quite simmer down to boredom. There's something dangerous at the edge of you. You hold the egg and your other hand clenches and releases the seat of your stool. There's a sound and you whip your head around before you can parse it: a pigeon taking off from the ledges outside. You screw up your face and look down, and you know you'll see white shattered pieces of shell and a mess all over but you still hate to be right.

He ain't here today. He's got business and you got none but you don't like to rattle around so you get dressed like a normal person and head out downtown. You could get dressed like any sort of person, in a city like this, but you like to put on normal pretty much every day. It's a trip. You have a shirt, open collar and no tie because normal is sloppy as hell these days. And you have brown shoes on your feet, a pair of jeans on, and a belt that's just a belt. It doesn't have any extra features. It's just regular. As you pass out through the kitchen you slip an egg into your pocket, tucking it into the inside pocket so it's handy, like a knife.

This city is easy to get around. It's all regular blocks and numbered streets and it pleases you; it's straight talking. You like that. It doesn't mess around. And the people you like too. They just get on with their own lives all around you and if you told them your whole sorry life story they'd just stare over your head at the graffiti until their stop and then carry on about their day. You haven't done that, obviously. You're a normal person. 

You take yourself into Chinatown and pick up groceries for dinner from the open stalls. You can't stand the grocery store near your building. It's too cold. The light is all wrong. Clinical. 

You stand at the ticket machine and you fumble through your pockets for change. You should get an unlimited, you know, but you don't. You buy a singleride every time. There's a dame on the subway with legs all the way up to heaven and she smiles at you when you roll up to her face. You smile back and you feel that zing crackle and that's a good feeling: both of you just liking the look of each other and showing it and taking that little hit of feel good with you into your day. You like it. 

At your stop a guy jostles you and you barge past him, bouncing off the car doors onto the platform. The noise is shocking, cartoonish: _clang!!_ People look around, even, and nobody looks around in this city so you hustle on out of there like your ass is on fire, your groceries swinging against your legs as you take the stairs two, three at a time. 

When you get to the street you stop, feeling like a clown, breathing hard through your nose so you don't look out of breath. Your coat buzzes and you're looking at it, completely like _blank_ and _what_ until you remember that, shit, it's your _phone,_ dumbass, and you haul it out and slide open to answer. His voice is all tired out, you can hear it even over this crappy line. He says: _I'm coming home tonight. You around?_ and you say: _Yeah_. Cause, _yeah_ : you're around. You wanna see him. So what. You get funny about the guy.

He'll run with you in the morning, you think, before you shear off that line of thinking. You don't make plans.


End file.
